


transit umbra

by Beardysteve, viperbranium (ViperSeven)



Series: howling ghosts, they reappear [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky was still born in the 20s though, Canonical Character Death, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017, M/M, Soulmates, Steve and Bucky didn't know each other during the war, but the endgame is All Caps, pls fear not Sam will get all the love he deserves, spoiler: it Riley, this one's mostly SamSteve and a bit of Sam being a drama queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beardysteve/pseuds/Beardysteve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViperSeven/pseuds/viperbranium
Summary: “I kinda put that together,” Sam tells him. Steve lets go of his hand, and then his eyes grow wide and he gasps.It’s automatic, like breathing. You meet someone, you shake hands, and youlook. Let your perception expand, reach out with feeble fingers and try to find something to hold on to, on the off chance that this will be the time it finds a kindred soul.Sam’s used to this, to the open mouths and the eyes like saucers and the sounds of surprise. But where people are usually mostly shocked, there’s such profound ache and longing in Steve’s eyes upon seeing Sam’s halo, that it almost makes him wish this could be true.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Captain America Reverse Bang 2017. Kudos to the mods for organizing such an amazing event, it's been an incredible experience and I hope there'll be more events like this one in the future. Also, special thanks to [Helene](http://misspaperjoker.tumblr.com) for all the hand-holding!
> 
> The art that inspired this fic was created by the _spectacular_ [beardysteve](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com), who's been an absolute sweetheart and with whom I still can't believe I had the pleasure to work. I completely fell in love with her pics the moment I saw them, and I can only hope I did them some justice.
> 
> [Go check them out and shower them in love!](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com/post/162545824738/its-automatic-like-breathing-you-meet-someone)   
> 

After six months of following cold leads throughout Washington DC, Indiana, London, Italy, and back to NYC, with no reward but a bunch of dead ends and some dead HYDRA bodies and, if they got really lucky, Steve’s eyes catching a glimpse of red among the crowd for a brief second, they finally find the Winter Soldier at a nondescript apartment in an old building in Hell’s Kitchen.

Or rather, the Winter Soldier lets himself be found.

Steve opens the door to the apartment because he’s made it a rule to _always_ go first, to keep Sam out of the line of potential fire even if neither of them are really expecting to find anyone after this long, and sitting on an armchair across the empty room, staring right at them, is the Winter Soldier.

There’s a SIG-Sauer P226R in his hand and Sam can make out at least 3 knives and another handgun on him, but his posture is relaxed and he’s not aiming at them, just holding it almost leisurely. It doesn’t make Sam lower the Glock he pulled out from its holster the moment he noticed Steve tensing up at his side, however, and the man seems to approve of that.

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have decided right away that this man is not an immediate threat, because he hasn’t even bothered to draw his gun. He just stands at Sam’s 10 in stunned silence, breathing rapidly and staring at the Soldier a bit dazedly, unable to even figure out what to say.

The man looks a bit beaten, like he could really use a shower and a 3-day nap, but seems to be otherwise in one piece. He’s wearing black cargo pants and a Kevlar vest over a long-sleeve black shirt, and there’s a dark spot on his right shoulder that could be grime or possibly blood, but overall, his physical condition isn’t terribly concerning.

His mental condition, on the other hand… well. That’s still a matter to be determined.

The Winter Soldier eyes them for a few moments, gauging god-knows-what, and then smirks. “Hey guys,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Took you two long enough.”

Christ, Sam can’t stand this guy.

 

\---------------

 

The first time it happens, Sam lets out a small, barely audible grunt.

It might be the greatest, most amazing mistake of his entire life.

He’s usually not this grumpy, which according to most people is a miracle in itself at this ungodly hour, but Sam’s always been an early bird. Last night, though… well. Not the best night he’s had lately.

It feels like forever since he’s had these nightmares.

Riley. Struck and free-falling and without Sam being able to do anything to help him.

The helplessness had been the worst: knowing how it’d end and feeling the panic, the bile rising in his throat... Mourning him before he was even gone, while at the same time foolishly hoping, _begging_.

That last sliver of hope had only made everything hurt twice as much, getting crushed when the inevitable had finally happened.

In reality, the wind had been roaring in his ears, swallowing up every other sound.

In his dreams, he always hears Riley’s scream.

Sam had woken up thrashing and sweat-drenched and with tears running down his face, his raw throat a clear indicator of just how bad it had been.

So. Grumpy.

He knows himself well enough by now, though. Knows that as drained as he might currently feel, or as big a feat mustering up enough energy to offer his neighbor a good morning smile might seem, the unease will be short-lived.

He knows running works like a charm. It clears his mind and helps him stay anchored, stops him from losing himself in past regrets and guilt and the feeling that he’s still missing half of his heart. Sam kicks off the bed sheets a bit more vindictively than necessary and is ready to go in less than five minutes, barely pausing enough to get his coffee maker started.

Halfway through his usual route the endorphins kick in and the tension in his muscles lessens, and he’s already stopped dreading the day he’s got ahead of him so much. Still, when the man rushes past him in a crazy sprint, and a quick “On your left,” is all the warning Sam gets to avoid being swept away by his powerful running, he grunts.

To himself, really—the man is already 30ft ahead of him by the time Sam does—but the guy must hear it anyway, because when he laps Sam again in front of the Jefferson Memorial, Sam could swear he sees him fighting back a smirk.

The third time it becomes evident that the guy’s outright fucking with him, because there’s no way in hell his running route makes any sense whatsoever unless this asshole is purposely going out of his way just to troll him.

“Don’t say it. Don’t you say it!” Sam warns him when he feels him getting closer again.

“On your left.”

“Oh, come on!” he protests, but he has to unwillingly admit he’s having fun. He does appreciate some high quality trolling.

\---

“Need a medic?”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “I need a new set of lungs,” he says, still struggling to catch his breath. Knowing there was little he could do against this guy didn’t stop him from trying to speed up and keep up with him out of pure spite. His ma always scolded him for his mean competitive streak. “Dude, you just ran, like, 13 miles in 30 minutes.”

“I guess I got a late start,” the smug fucker replies. God, Sam hates him already.

“Really? You should be ashamed of yourself,” he jokes. “You should take another lap. Did you just take it? I assume you just took it.”

Blond, buff and sexy smiles and gestures at Sam’s sweater. “What unit you with?” he asks.

“58th Pararescue. But now I’m working down at the VA.” He extends his hand, more as a friendly salute than because he really needs help standing, and adds, “Sam Wilson.”

“Steve Rogers,” the guy says, taking Sam’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

“I kinda put that together,” Sam tells him. Steve lets go of his hand, and then his eyes grow wide and he gasps.

It’s automatic, like breathing. You meet someone, you shake hands, and you _look_. Let your perception expand, reach out with feeble fingers and try to find something to hold on to, on the off chance that this will be the time it finds a kindred soul.

Sam’s used to this, to the open mouths and the eyes like saucers and the sounds of surprise. But where people are usually mostly shocked, there’s such profound ache and longing in Steve’s eyes upon seeing Sam’s halo, that it almost makes him wish this could be true. That he could, maybe, give the man this, be the person he needs and ease a bit of that pain. And that Steve would ease his in turn, because god, does Sam know that pain.

He knows how often he’s worn that very same expression himself, is intimately familiar with the way the memories sting. Knows just how paradoxically heavy that hole in his heart can be.

“Ah, sorry! Lemme just—” Sam tells him, and stops purposely projecting his halo. “There,” he adds, smiling apologetically.

Steve Rogers isn’t dumb, and the second he stops being able to see Sam’s halo he quickly catches on what just happened. He returns Sam’s smile and blushes a bit. “Sorry,” he says, despite it being very much not his fault that Sam was displaying his halo for everyone to see like a prancing peacock spreading its feathers. “People didn’t usually, um, do that. Before. Share it openly.”

“Well, it’s not really a _thing_ now, you know? It’s just… me being dramatic.” Sam tells him, and when Steve looks at him questioningly he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But I imagine this kind of thing was a lot more frowned upon back then, right?”

“The world has changed a lot,” Steve agrees, still sneaking a glance at where Sam’s halo was a few seconds ago.

He seems unsure as to whether he should say something about it, or if that’d be rude considering it wasn’t really for him to see, and honestly Sam isn’t sure himself either. People who actively share their halo so anyone who’s ever touched them can see it aren’t common enough for there to be any kind of protocol, so he just spares them both the awkwardness and keeps talking.

“You must miss the good old days, huh?”

“Well, things aren’t so bad,” Steve says, and he smiles as he does, but he looks like someone who’s trying to convince himself, wishing that what he’s saying was true. “Food’s a lot better, we used to boil everything. No polio is good,” he goes on. “Internet, so helpful. I’ve been reading that a lot, trying to catch up.”

Sam’s worked as a counselor for long enough that he can tell Steve’s reply was some class A Conceal-Don’t-Feel, but he knows better than to call Steve out on it. You can’t bulldoze your way into getting someone to open up, you gotta ease your way in. “Marvin Gaye, 1972, _Trouble Man_ soundtrack,” he tells him. “Everything you missed jammed into one album.”

At that, Steve Rogers pulls out a small notebook that in his hands just looks adorably, ridiculously tiny. “I’ll put it on the list,” he says, smiling, and Sam tries not to stare too much at the way his arms frame his massive chest while Steve writes.

Okay, the guy’s kinda cute.

\---

Sam wasn’t actually expecting Steve to take him up on his offer and stop by the VA.

He’d suggested it as they parted ways, to give Steve an opening maybe, but they hadn’t actually agreed on anything, and frankly, even if they had, Steve’s Avenger duties would’ve been a perfectly valid excuse for him to not be able to make it.

But Steve does come, and while Sam’s always glad to welcome new people, to see them trying to get help and get better, the man’s presence makes him even happier than anyone else’s normally does.

The man walks up to him after Sam’s talk is over and they chat for a bit, and Sam can’t help but notice how, even though he’s been back in the world for a couple years now, it still looks like he feels terribly out of place.

Steve must feel Sam’s loss just as clearly as Sam had felt his at the park, so he asks about Riley and Sam tells him what happened, because can’t possibly ask people to share and then not do the same thing himself… And it’s also easy to talk to Steve.

“I'm sorry,” Steve says.

“After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?” Sam tells him, spinning and toying with the ring on his left hand, still a reflex gesture after all this time. Steve’s eyes follow the movement.

“He was your soulmate,” he states more than asks, understanding. His gaze carries the kind of sympathy that tells Sam Steve’s not just sorry for him, but can feel his pain as if it was his own.

With the sudden lump that’s lodged in his throat, Sam can only nod.

They’d started walking as they chatted, and somehow have ended up at a bar, which works fine for Sam because he could really use a beer right now. He may not give two fucks about any toxic masculinity bullshit, but he’s _not_ about to get misty-eyed in front of _Captain America_ , thank you very much.

Steve’s funny and charming and easily lifts the mood, and they spend the evening talking about anything and everything, that first beer turning into three, plus shots, plus a game of pool in which Sam totally kicks Steve’s ass.

“Best of three?” Steve asks.

“Hell, no! Gotta quit while you’re ahead!” Sam says, slurring a bit. “This time I’m leaving with my ego still intact, thanks.”

“C’mon, you’re not that bad a runner!” Steve teases.

Sam lets out an ugly snort. “And you’re kind of an asshole, you know that? Someone should tell historians they got all the textbooks wrong.”

That makes Steve laugh. Openly and honest and beautiful. “Well, history textbooks seem to focus more on Captain America than Steve Rogers,” he says, and seems genuinely happy that Sam does see the difference between the two. Before Sam can comment on it, he adds, “Still an asshole if I offer to buy the next round?”

“You can get yourself another round, and I can watch while you drink it.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam tells him, jabbing Steve’s chest with his finger. Alcohol makes him kind of touchy-feely, and it’s a very nice chest. “You can’t get drunk.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re not _that_ drunk if you beat me at pool…”

Sam waves a hand dismissively. “Friend of mine use’ta say alcohol can improve your natural skills. Not like, getting smashed, just… a couple drinks,” Sam says. “Like, if you’re shit at something then there’s nothing that can be done, but if you’re good it can give you a boost.”

“So alcohol works like the serum, huh?” Steve quirks a playful eyebrow. “You saying we should go running now, see if there’s still hope for you?”

“Dude, unless you race me to my bed, you’re outta luck.” Steve doesn’t even bother to reply to that, just leans back against the pool table and gives Sam a very pointed look, making a show of checking him out. Sam groans, and adds “That was PG in my head.”

“Hey, it’s faster than I’m used to going,” Steve says, crossing his arms and smirking, “but I can adapt.”

Sam throws his hands in the air. “See what I mean?” he tells him. “Asshole.”

They don’t get another round, but Steve pays for everything anyway, despite Sam’s protests.

“You can treat me to coffee after our run tomorrow,” Steve says.

“Oh, we’re going running tomorrow?” Sam asks.

He’s teasing, of course, but Steve’s smile turns a bit awkward anyway. “If you don’t mind me joining you?” he says, head lowered and looking at Sam through those long, thick eyelashes of his. It’s funny how he can joke about sex with a smug expression, completely unfazed, and then something as innocent as this is what makes him all shy. If he wasn’t so huge Sam would feel the urge to pet him like a puppy. He still kind of wants to.

“Sure. If you don’t mind, like, running in circles around me…” Sam answers, bumping his shoulder into Steve’s, and relishing in the way it makes the man laugh.

“At least the view will be nice,” Steve says, winking.

Sam’s too tipsy to consider whether Steve might be talking about the park, or about him.

He’s also too tipsy to stop his brain from thinking about just how much he’s going to get away with staring at Steve’s ass if the man keeps lapping him.

\---

Steve, understandably, doesn’t join him every day, but whenever he does, it’s always to be a huge pain in Sam’s ass.

Sam can’t remember having as much fun as during these past few weeks in years.

He also can’t remember having opened up to anyone so easily since… well. Riley.

The thought of him still makes him feel that sharp pang of survivor’s guilt and remorse and loss he’s so used to by now, but even that pain seems to have numbed somewhat.

It helps that whenever his face falls, Steve, who Sam now knows is achingly familiar with this very same kind of pain, seems to know just how to help. Knows when to ask about it, to let Sam share and listen attentively as Sam’s mind wanders through years and years of treasured memories. Or when to simply squeeze his shoulder gently in silent reassurance. Or when to just start rambling about the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to quiet Sam’s screaming thoughts.

Sam tries to do the same for him in return.

The first time they meet up after one of Steve’s visits to Peggy, the poor guy is completely drained, so Sam gives him a tour around the city just so he can show him his favorite places. He talks and talks about every monument and every diner and every childhood anecdote, and when it finally gets Steve to laugh, it fills Sam with warmth.

If his own heartache is anything to go by, he can’t imagine what the agony must be like for Steve, when the person he’d loved so much is still alive, but he can’t see her halo anymore. Peggy Carter has lived her life, has grown old and changed without Steve where the both of them were supposed to do so together, over time. And Steve’s grateful that he can get to enjoy her company and spend time with her still, but he never had the chance to stop loving her, and seeing her is also a constant reminder of what he’s lost.

The next time they hang out after Steve’s been visiting Peggy, she’s had a good day. Steve’s pensive, but not sad, or at least no more than he usually is — there’s a constant, underlying sadness in those baby blues that Sam still hasn’t been able to shake, but he’s not about to give up so easily. Sam takes him to his place and puts on _The Sting_ and orders pizza, and there’s something about the way Steve’s sprawled out comfortably on his couch, beer bottle held leisurely in his hand and thigh brushing against Sam’s, like he _belongs_ there, that ties Sam’s stomach up in knots.

Some days are just fun, if listening to Steve bitching for an hour on their way back from the Nats vs Mets can be considered fun.

"...Rizzo should've kept Scherzer in is all I'm saying.”

At this point, Sam’s only still replying to rile him up. "Yeah, but there was a lefty coming up.”

"Fuck that, I wanted to see Max pitch to Murphy."

"You just wanted to see if Daniel could hit another homer off him," Sam says, grinning.

“I’m—where are we going?” Steve cuts himself off. “I thought we were having dinner at Darlene’s?”

“She texted that she's still at her friend's vernissage and said she wasn't gonna have time to cook. And apparently there’s nothing in our fridge she can serve _Captain America_ ,” Sam finishes in a mocking tone, drawing quotation marks in the air for added effect.

Steve swats Sam’s nearest hand away. “She does know the kind of food I used to eat back then, right? You know I wouldn’t’ve minded—”

“Yeah, you wanna try telling my mom that, buddy?” Sam says, and is delighted at the way Steve visibly shrinks. Nice to see Darlene Wilson is a force to be feared, even among superheroes. “Thought so,” he adds, pausing for a moment to figure out which direction to go. “There’s no arguing with that woman. But don’t flatter yourself, she’s like this with everyone.”

Steve sighs in defeat. “So what’s the plan, then?” he asks. “Angelo’s?”

“Sure.” Sam shrugs and then bumps his shoulder into Steve’s playfully, smirking. “If you still feel like grabbing dinner after that awful game.”

Steve just groans at the reminder, but his eyes when he looks at Sam are fond. Caring.

Sometimes when they hang out Steve will still sneak glances at Sam’s halo, only to quickly look away a moment later, a smile dancing on those full lips and a bit of red kissing his cheeks.

\---

“It took my mom and dad a while,” Sam says. “Mom thought she was gonna have to stop seeing my dad. She was worried.”

His ma always used to tell him about how back then it still was frowned upon to stay in a relationship with someone if by the time the appropriate courting period was over you still hadn’t seen their halo. He imagines the pressure was probably stronger for Steve, back in the forties.

“And your father?” Steve asks.

“Oh, he knew mom was the one.” Sam says, stretching a leg beneath the table and bumping his calf into Steve’s in the process. The guy’s too big for these tiny booths. “One day the wind blew her scarf off her head and carried it away, and dad climbed a tree to recover it even though he was afraid of heights. When he handed it back to her they both saw it.”

The story makes Steve smile. “Peggy and I didn’t see each other right away either,” he tells Sam, scooping another spoonful of ice cream.

“How did it go?” Sam asks, resting his head on his palm and contemplating stealing some of that ice cream.

“She shot me.”

Sam can feel his own eyes growing wide. “She _what_ now?”

Steve laughs. “’Cause I kissed another girl.”

“Dude,” Sam says, whistling. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Howard had just given me the shield,” Steve goes on, gaze fond as he reminisces. “You know, the one I still have. We’d been testing different ones. So I picked that one up and asked Peggy what she thought, and man, she was _furious_. She aimed her gun at me and I just _knew_ she was gonna shoot, saw it in her eyes. I barely had time to hide behind it.”

“Well, at least the shield worked,” Sam points out, amused. “And then?”

“I lowered the shield and I could see it. Her halo. And from the way her expression changed I could tell she saw mine too,” Steve says, grinning. “I was shocked and terrified and elated all at once.”

As he listens to him talk, Sam can’t help but notice how the hint of sadness that’s ever-present in Steve’s eyes whenever he thinks about his past and what he’s left behind or lost, for the first time isn’t there. For the first time, Steve looks as if he’s truly _happy_. As if here, in this moment and place, is exactly where we wants to be. It makes Sam’s heartbeat pick up for some reason.

“Riley and I had been friends forever,” Sam tells Steve in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts, “so it also took, like, a catalyst for me to see his.”

“Mmhmm?” Steve says, prompting him to go on.

Sam picks the little wafer piece in Steve’s ice cream, using it to scoop up a bit, and brings it to his mouth.

“We were training with the suits, practicing maneuvers, and he started singing, uh, the _High School Musical_ song,” the memory alone makes Sam laugh softly. “You won’t know it, it’s a stupid sappy song from a stupid sappy movie. But it’s about flying, metaphorically, and Riley was a terrible, _terrible_ singer.”

“Any chances you’ll sing a bit so I won’t have to wait ‘til I can Google it later?” Steve asks, poking Sam’s leg with his feet and smiling one of his gorgeous, dimpled, teasing smiles that make his eyes shine and Sam breathe harder.

“Yeah, nice try there, buddy,” Sam says, playfully kicking him back. “Anyway, I guess I must’ve had pretty awful taste, ‘cause it made me see it. And Riley saw mine already, so when he saw my face and realized what was going on he was so thrilled he just started yelling ‘ _I knew it, oh my god I knew it!_ ’ and moved to kiss me so quickly he actually bumped our heads together.” Sam touches the ring on his left hand and swallows around the lump in his throat. “We got married a month later.”

They hadn’t wanted to wait, with their line of work, and they’d already been practically dating for ages before that, so it had felt right. If anything, Sam wishes they would’ve done it sooner.

“I wish I could’ve— _oh_!” Steve cuts himself off, staring at Sam a bit dazedly, his hand reaching out towards Sam’s face in a half-aborted gesture.

“What?” Sam asks.

Steve smiles, warm and sweet and affectionate. “You’re, uh, you’re glowing,” he responds, nodding at Sam’s halo.

“Ah!” Sam says, blushing much to his chagrin and trying to stifle the glow down. “I, um, I’m sorry… I didn’t realize…”

“No, don’t be,” Steve tells him. “It’s… it’s really beautiful.”

He looks all shy when he says it, his cheeks slightly pink as well, but he doesn’t stop meeting Sam’s gaze. Sam’s impulse would also be to look away, but he can’t tear his eyes away from those gorgeous blue ones.

“I… thank you. Um, no one had… since Riley…” He shakes his head and tries again. “When he died, I thought no one would see me again… See the real me, my true colors. I couldn’t stand that thought on top of… _everything_.”

Steve thankfully seems to make sense of his babbling. “Is that why you project your halo? Share it openly?”

Sam nods. “I know it’s stupid… Couldn’t stand the thought that no one would ever see it again, so I just decided I’d make everyone see it.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “Bit dramatic, huh?”

“It’s not. And it’s not stupid,” Steve says. “You lost half of your soul, it’s not easy to heal after such a wound. If this helped… _helps_ … then it’s not stupid. And…” he adds, small smile on his lips. “I’m glad you did. I’m grateful that I got to see you.”

Steve’s entirely earnest, and that alone makes Sam breathless. God, Sam really hopes Steve’s enhanced hearing isn’t picking up on the way his heart is beating wildly in his chest.

“Riley was blue,” Sam says, just because he needs to say _something _. “Light. Like the sky in a sunny day…” _Like your eyes_ , he thinks, _like flying___.

Steve shifts in his seat to lean in a bit closer as Sam talks, ice cream now gone, and when his leg brushes softly against Sam’s, he leaves it there, solid and anchoring and reassuring.

“Peggy was… like dark chocolate. Sweet and sharp and elegant, but spicy. A hint of red…” Steve says. “I’m not sure how to describe it. I was colorblind as a kid so I’m not that great with colors, just… with the way they make me feel.” He chuckles, and then looks back up at Sam’s halo before going on, unprompted. “You’re… home. Birdsong and the smell of the grass and the trees and open air. Safe.”

If Sam was glowing earlier, he doesn’t even want to think about what Steve might be seeing now. He’s actually having trouble just trying to think of anything at the moment.

He doesn’t say anything, because he _can’t_ , because how does one even respond to something like that, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind that Sam’s completely forgotten English. He just stares at Sam like he hung the goddamn moon for a full minute, and then says, “I want you to see mine…”

And Sam doesn’t know if that’s him hoping Sam could, or him offering to project his halo just like Sam projects his, but it’d be so easy, so _easy_ to take this opening and tell Steve what Sam’s been trying really hard to not draw attention to for the past few weeks… It’d be so easy to stop displaying his halo and test whether Steve can still see it, whether maybe, _maybe_ Sam gets to have this, _him_ , this second chance. It’d be so easy to tell Steve that he _can_ see him, golden and brave and fierce, warming Sam up from the inside out like the sun.

“I want to see yours,” is what he says instead, voice small and full of emotion, because, god, Sam’s never been a coward, but the mere thought of losing this _terrifies_ him. Soon, though, he tells himself. Soon.

Steve smiles softly and reaches out, rubs a gentle thumb under Sam’s eye to wipe a tear before it falls. “Can I walk you home?” he asks. Sam can only nod.

The walk home is quiet, but in an intimate, comforting way. Steve laces his fingers with Sam’s the moment he’s paid the bill and they’re out in the street—Sam hadn’t even realized how late it was—, and doesn’t stop holding his hand until they get to Sam’s place.

When they stop at his door, Steve gingerly backs Sam against it and lets his hand fall to Sam’s hip, squeezing affectionately.

“Sam…” he says, awed and reverent, and Sam just _wants_.

Steve doesn’t finish that line, but Sam can see the question in those eyes. He lets out a small whine. “You know people will talk if they find out…” he protests. “Captain America in an unhaloed relationship. It’s… it may not be illegal anymore like in the forties, but…”

“You know I don’t care,” Steve says firmly. “I don’t care what anyone might say, and I don’t care if I never get to see your halo. I like you. I _want_ you.”

“But…” Sam tries weakly, but then Steve’s hand is on his jaw, tilting his chin up, and Sam is melting before their lips can even touch.

Steve kissing him is like free-falling: the very same pleasant twist in his stomach than when he plummets earthward, his pulse hammering in his ear, the air getting knocked out of him… His skin wherever Steve touches him tingles, and Sam’s whole body feels like molten gold, liquid and warm and exactly the same shade as Steve’s halo.

Then Steve lets out a tiny, pleasured sound against Sam’s lips, and Sam’s not liquid anymore, wraps his newly regained arms around Steve’s neck instead, pulling him closer and breathing him in, swallowing every broken moan. Steve has to put his hand on the door for leverage, but the fingertips of his other one dig into the back of Sam’s neck, possessive and desperate and _hungry_ , and Sam thinks he might just go crazy with need.

When they pull back, it’s a miracle Sam doesn’t slide right to the floor.

“Good?” Steve asks, breathless and genuinely worried even in the face of Sam’s very evident enthusiasm. Sam huffs out a laugh that comes out a tiny bit hysterical.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing his thumb along Steve’s jaw. “Really good. _Great_.”

Steve puts his hand over Sam’s and kisses his palm. He’s smiling the biggest, happiest smile Sam’s seen on him yet, and his eyes are full of adoration. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, and then smirks as he tugs at Steve’s T-Shirt. “One for the road?” he asks, pulling him in for a chaste, tender kiss. Steve goes willingly.

 _Tomorrow_ , Sam thinks as Steve tells him good night and pecks his cheek one last time. Tomorrow he’ll come clean, tell Steve he does see his halo and find out if Steve still sees his when he stops projecting it. And if they don’t, well… They’ll figure that out together, too.

\---

Only he doesn’t see Steve the following day.

This isn’t new; Sam knows he sometimes gets little to no notice before missions, so he’s not particularly worried yet. Steve will shoot him a quick line when he can, and frankly, if the guy’s out there saving the world and fighting the bad guys, Sam would rather he didn’t distract himself by pulling out his phone to text him.

He wishes him good luck and tells him to come over when he’s back, and adds a heart and a bird emoji just because, and then goes on with his day. By the time he hits the bed Steve hasn’t replied yet, but it’s not the first time that he’s had to spend a few days MIA. It’s terrible timing, but what can Sam do.

In the morning there’s still no word from Steve, and throughout his entire running routine Sam tries to smother that tiny pang of worry that’s nestled in his stomach, and fails. The knock on his door doesn’t immediately help; Steve always gives him a heads up before dropping by.

Sam goes to open, and gets half a second of blissful relief before he sees the state Steve and Romanoff are in.

“Hey, man,” he greets him, brows furrowing and voice tight with concern.

Standing there on his porch covered in soot and with those big blue eyes giving Sam a pitiful look, he kind of reminds Sam of that dog from _Up_. When he opens his mouth Sam practically expects to hear something along the lines of ‘ _I was hiding under your porch because I love you’_.

“I’m sorry about this,” Steve says. “We need a place to lay low.” Which, yeah, close enough.

“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Romanoff explains.

“Not everyone,” Sam says determinedly, stepping aside to let them in.

\---

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam,” Steve says. “You got out for a good reason.”

“Dude, Captain America needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

It's not like he has much of an option, really. Not with the world about to succumb to _freaking HYDRA_. Sam knows half the reason why Steve isn’t putting up a bigger fight against him joining them is Sam’s life is already at risk anyway.

But most importantly, Sam just won’t stay behind and watch from the sidelines as Steve sacrifices himself for a world that most of the time doesn’t even deserve it. Won’t let them take away the remaining half of his soul and find himself powerless to stop it. Can’t. Not again.

He barely notices Natasha walking out of the room, caught up as he is in the anguish the thought alone causes him.

“Sam,” Steve says, holding out a hand, beckoning him over. Sam moves to take it and Steve pulls him closer, until their chests are flush against each other’s. “Please, don’t do this for me. I’m… I’m not gonna stop you, but… Don’t. Don’t think you have to do this. Not _for me_.”

“I know I don’t.” Sam shakes his head and then rests his forehead against Steve’s. “It’s not for you. Or it is, but it’s for me too.” He groans, unable to find the words. “I’d do it even if we weren’t… if us…”

Steve lets out a small, loving laugh. “Yeah,” he says, cradling Sam’s neck. “’Course you would.”

“It’s the right thing to do. You’re just giving me the means to do it.”

“I know, and it terrifies me.” Steve squeezes Sam’s hand almost desperately. “Promise you’ll be safe. Promise you won’t, I don’t know, risk your life for me or do anything stupid like that. Promise me—”

Sam can’t promise any of that, though. Won’t. So instead he just cuts Steve off, lunges forward and kisses him within an inch of his life, begging whatever deity’s listening that this won’t be the last chance he gets.

\---

It’s funny how, considering their predicament, beaten up and with Natasha bleeding out through a bullet wound and them all shoved into the back of a van on their way to the slaughterhouse, it’s Steve’s question that feels like a sentence.

“Did you see it too?” Steve asks Natasha.

And Sam’s not an idiot. Sam had seen the way Steve had just stood there after the guy’s mask had fallen, shell-shocked and tormented and unable to keep fighting. A storm behind those blue eyes, despair and yearning clashing as Steve’s world, and Sam’s by extension, was flipped upside down in a second.

The Winter Soldier had been practically completely covered up in combat gear, but Steve’s fingertips must’ve touched his skin as they’d slipped under the man’s mask. He asks Natasha just in case, because she’d fought the man up close too, had touched his face, but he sounds like someone who already knows what the answer to his question’s gonna be, and Sam doesn’t need to listen to Nat’s reply to know as well. Projecting their halos is really not a thing people usually do.

Of course life would let him believe he could have this, have Steve, only to snatch him away a moment later. God, Sam must’ve either been one hell of a asshole in some past life or won the bad luck lotto, because it’s rare enough that he’d get a second soulmate after his had died, but to then have that soulmate see someone else’s halo instead?

It feels like some cruel joke. Feels like going back to drowning after getting just one glorious, perfect gulp of fresh air, saltwater filling his lungs and the weight of the ocean crushing him, making him sink further and further down.

When Natasha shakes her head Steve lets out a small, hurt sound. He looks lost, helpless. “I don’t understand,” Steve says. “How… how can he be—”

“He was in one of Zola’s clips,” Natasha tells him. “At the bunker, when he was distracting us talking about how SHIELD recruited him. Zola said he continued his experiments behind SHIELD’s back, and the guy showed up for a second. His arm was getting chopped off.”

“You think he was tortured?” Sam asks.

Natasha shrugs and immediately winces. “I don’t know. But he’s a little young for someone who’s allegedly been assassinating people for over 50 years.”

“Zola was trying to recreate the serum,” Steve says, thoughtful. “When I broke into the base at Azzano, the prisoners said he’d taken some of them for his experiments. They thought they all had died, saw the bodies…”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, well… Where could one possibly find some extra bodies in a war, right?”

If anything, Sam would’ve thought that the possibility of his soulmate being a POW instead of HYDRA would cheer Steve up a bit, but he looks more grief-stricken still by the notion.

“If he was at Azzano, I….” Steve says brokenly. “I was _there_. I could’ve—”

“None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Natasha cuts him off and exhales raggedly, shifting to try lessening the pain of her shoulder.

“We need to get a doctor here,” Sam tells one of the HYDRA goons. “If we don’t put pressure on that wound, she’s gonna bleed out here in the truck!”

Sam could’ve expected getting tased in the face just for asking, but he had to try anyway.

He certainly wasn’t expecting one of the HYDRA agents to beat the other one up before pulling his helmet off. “That thing was squeezing my brain,” the woman complains, before looking at Steve and Natasha and then back at Sam, and asking, “Who’s this guy?”

\---

As they go over everyone’s mission one last time, Steve doesn’t ask Natasha to check on the Winter Soldier’s files when she dumps all of HYDRA’s and SHIELD’s files on the internet, but she offers to do it anyway.

“If he’s being forced to do this, that might not make things easier,” she says. “If you have to hold back because he’s innocent…”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’ll get this done,” Steve tells her, determined. “I won’t let HYDRA win.”

Sam knows it’s the truth, but he also knows Steve will let himself get killed before letting an innocent man die. He can’t help but think that if Steve dies, HYDRA wins anyway.

“What is it?” Steve asks him later, standing on the bridge next to him and leaning back against the railing.

Sam lets out a harsh laugh. “How do I even begin talking about this without it sounding like I’m just being a bitter and jealous asshole?”

“Sam,” Steve tells him, the way his name rolls off those full lips still sending a shiver down Sam’s spine. He hooks his fingers through Sam’s belt loops to gently pull him closer. “This changes nothing. I still… You and I—”

“This changes a huge fucking deal, Steve,” he says, not unkindly. “But that’s not—It’s not about that,” he goes on before Steve can argue. “Look, whoever he used to be, the guy he is now, I don't think he's the kind you save… He’s the kind you stop.”

Steve just stands there in silence for a moment, resting his forehead against Sam’s. “I saw him standing there,” he tells him then, “looking completely lost and helpless for a moment, his halo bent and broken, but still glowing fiercely. Pained, like it was desperately screaming for help…” He shakes his head minutely. “I don’t know if I can stop him, Sam. I… I _have_ to help him.”

Sam exhales, drawn out and tired. “Promise me you’ll be safe,” he all but pleads.

Steve smiles a small, loving smile, and just moves to kiss him instead of answering.

\---

Sam hadn’t really expected Steve not to be the self-sacrificing idiot he is for even a second, so when he’d found him lying unconscious on the river bank, bloody and bullet-ridden and with more broken bones that Sam could count, but _alive_ despite all the horrible images that had been playing in Sam’s head for the past few hours, it’d felt like getting his own life back.

They keep Steve at the hospital for a week, and Natasha, or maybe Stark, makes sure no one bothers neither Sam nor Steve, which Sam is infinitely thankful for.

Other than the long hours Sam spends searching for the shield right after bringing Steve in, simply because he can’t stand to just sit there waiting, doing nothing while Steve’s in the OR, the longest Sam stays away from him is the time it takes him to grab a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes.

To the nightmares of Riley getting blown out of the sky now he gets to add the ones of Steve lying by the Potomac, and Sam rushing to his side only to realize that instead of seeing that thin, golden line above his head that had filled him with utter relief in real life, Steve’s light is completely gone. The hospital chair definitely isn’t helping, but it’s not like anyone dares to even suggest he leaves Steve’s side for a bit.

When Steve finally wakes up, he’s still as big an asshole as ever, but Sam doubts any words have ever made him as happy as that, “On your left,” does.

\---

Natasha’s interrogation of Pierce and a quick scouting through the files she was dumping online had revealed that The Winter Soldier had actually been brainwashed and tortured into compliance, and that he was in fact Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, formerly a member of the 107th regiment and captured by HYDRA in Azzano along the rest of his unit.

When Steve regains consciousness he tells them that him repeating the guy’s name over and over and his refusal to fight him must’ve managed to break through the Soldier’s conditioning, because he’d pulled Steve from the River, saving his life.

Steve’s so horrified by the information Natasha unearths and the knowledge that he’d been so close to saving this man from decades of torture back then, that Sam can’t find it in him to point out that Steve wouldn’t’ve needed the guy to save his life if he hadn’t almost killed him in the first place.

“You’re going after him,” Sam says, resigned.

It’s not a question.

He might not like the pain this whole thing brings Steve, but he’s seen the file with all the information Natasha had managed to gather himself, and he’s read about the horrors James Barnes has been through. Soulmates or not, Steve would still go after this man. And Steve or not, Sam’s not heartless enough to not do the same thing.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Steve tells him, and Sam wants to laugh, because, god, _as if_. As if this was still an option for him, taking a step back and walking away.

As if any of his decisions during the entire time he’s known Steve had been rational and level-headed.

“I know,” Sam says, rolling his eyes fondly. The fool probably wouldn’t even think any less of Sam if he didn’t. “When do we start?”


	2. Post-Credits scene :P

“It’s been glitching since the Potomac,” James Barnes tells Rhodey as the man pokes at his metal arm with a screwdriver and a few weirder tools Sam can’t name. “Sometimes it just starts whirring, or the plates get stuck mid-rearrange and I can’t move it for a while.”

The words make Steve shift on his stool, and when Sam turns towards him he notices him sporting one of his Guilty Puppy™ looks. Barnes’ tone carried no accusation, but that clearly isn’t stopping Steve from feeling responsible for his predicament.

Sam has to roll his eyes.

“Col. Rhodes, Mr. Stark wants me to inquire whether you checked the arm's cooling syst—”

“JARVIS, please remind _Mr. Stark_ ,” Rhodey says in a mocking tone, “who, _of the two of us_ , got the highest score in Thermal-Fluids II.”

“You’re reporting to Tony?” Steve asks, more curious than disapproving.

“There’s a guy with an incredibly advanced metal prosthesis sitting in his workshop, you think I can keep this from him?” Rhodey responds without looking up from what he’s doing. “We can count ourselves lucky that he hasn’t just showed up and left everyone else to deal with Strucker.”

The Avengers had unanimously agreed that Rumlow roaming free was worrisome enough that they should handle it, and had spared Steve the decision between going with them and continuing his search for both Barnes and Rumlow. They had split up, and the rest of the team had kept raiding HYDRA bases across the ocean trying to get to Strucker, with the promise to call for reinforcements if things went sour. Rhodey, who had responsibilities with the military, had stayed for the time being as well.

After all this time travelling with Steve searching for the guy, Sam couldn’t even consider the possibility of not staying too.

Steve still looks at him the same way, with the same adoration in those eyes. Still kisses him like he's desperate for it, like he was drowning and Sam was a lifeboat… or maybe Sam’s the ocean, and Steve _wants_ to drown. Even so, Sam can’t shake this feeling of impending doom, and until the other shoe drops… well. A wiser man would maybe leave while he can, distance himself before he’s in too deep and hopefully try to lessen the inevitable pain.

Sam’s not wise. Sam kisses back every time with just as much passion and falls into Steve’s arms every night still. Sam’s motherfucking Icarus, flinging himself straight into the sun.

“So, um,” Steve says tentatively, bringing Sam back to the present. “James…”

“Bucky,” the man interrupts, not harshly.

Sam, who definitely wasn’t expecting that, fails to hold back a laugh at the nickname. It ends up coming out as a weird snort. “Seriously?” he says when Barnes shoots him a questioning look.

“You got a problem, birdy?” Barnes asks. Sam holds his palms up, but the guy doesn’t really look offended, so Sam risks poking a bit more fun at him.

“No, sorry, you’re right,” he says. “Terrifying name.”

That actually makes the man snicker, and he must move his arm because Rhodey grunts and pokes him in the ribs with the screwdriver. “Sorry,” Barnes says, pursing his lips to stop laughing.

It’s almost hard to remember how menacing and deadly he can really be, like this. He’s sitting on his stool with his back against the table, metal arm stretched across the edge of it to give Rhodey better access, and he couldn’t look more different from the man they’d fought not that long ago, or even from the man they’d found the day before. Clean and well rested and in a white tank top and comfy grey sweatpants. His hair is up in a messy bun, and his right shoulder has been patched up.

Looking at him now, Sam could almost let himself forget how this guy tore his suit apart and kicked him off that helicarrier. Or how he repeatedly tried to kill him. Or forget about the anguish and sadness he’d put in Steve’s eyes every time they had gotten close to him only for him to escape from their grasp once again, and about Sam’s own anguish and helplessness at frustration when there was nothing he could do about it.

Christ, Sam knows he should cut the guy some slack, but it’s _hard_.

“It’s from my middle name, Buchanan,” Barnes goes on to explain, looking at Sam and then back at Steve. He winces a bit. “My parents had very questionable taste in presidents.”

And this is exactly where the problem lies.

Because yeah, it’s hard to not be bitter. But it’s also fucking hard to hate the guy when he can make Steve smile like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the rest of Lucii's gorgeous art [here](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com/tagged/insanart)  
> [follow Lucii on tumblr](http://beardysteve.tumblr.com)!  
> [follow me on tumblr](http://viperbranium.tumblr.com) :D


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